


A New Country

by Philomytha



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I thought that my voyage had come to its end.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Country

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Vorkosigan, Aral, ['Closed Path' by Rabindranath Tagore](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/closed-path/)

Father had been asking questions again this morning. Starting slowly and casually, like a good interrogator: had he had any trouble sorting out that terraforming scam in Hassadar, were there any outstanding problems, would he be around to help out today? Aral had answered in monosyllables: yes, no, maybe. Perhaps that had been the trouble. If he hadn't answered, Father wouldn't have been encouraged to ask more. Did he want to ride out and look at the vines, did he think they should redo the attic servants' rooms here, had he spoken to Padma lately? Did he have an answer for Vortala?

That had been when Aral had left the breakfast table, most of his food untouched, and headed for the pavilion with a couple of bottles.

No, he didn't have an answer for Vortala. He wasn't going to make any more decisions, wasn't going to answer any more questions. The hardest decision he had to make now was the choice between the wine, the brandy and the really vile Komarran liqueur.

The sun blazed down on the lake and heated the ground around him, hostile and aggressive, an assault force he couldn't resist. The black speck of a flyer followed it, and he tracked its path automatically through blurred eyes. It landed beyond the house. If that was another messenger from the Emperor, he hoped Father would chase him off. Aral was pretty sure the only thing that would keep him from breaking a bottle over any messenger's head was that he didn't think he could get up. But he could come up with some good insults.

Damn the Emperor.

The thought was still too clear in his head. He took another gulp of the liqueur and felt the stab of protesting pain from his stomach. A distraction, good. He let it fill his attention. No more emperors, no more wars, no more burned and distorted bodies pursuing him. Just dull and foggy pain. And isolation.

Wounded animals crawled off alone to die. Why wouldn't Father let him crawl off alone?

No more questions, no more decisions, no more giving orders and sending men to die for the sake of the Emperor's honour. For Serg's honour, surely the most evil cause he had sent men to die for.

Too many men. They were starting to emerge, one by one, walking up from the lake to find him here. He could hear them. _Adm'ral, did we win? What were we fighting for? Did we serve you well?_

He was too much of a coward to face them yet. He closed his eyes, then gulped another shot of the liqueur and chased it with the brandy.

"Liquid breakfast?" said a voice to his left. "Is it as tasty as oatmeal and blue cheese dressing?"

For a moment the words made no sense, not part of the litany of painful accusation and excruciating unearned praise. This wasn't part of the script. As the meaning sank in, he opened his eyes wide and turned his head.

He'd seen Cordelia before, usually as one of the frozen and bloated corpses from his war, sometimes in chains in Ges's bed. He'd never seen her in a flowery dress making jokes about what he was drinking, casting a shadow in the suddenly cheerful and friendly sun.

Logical thought returned slowly. She wasn't a hallucination. Therefore she was real. She was here. She was here!

"You," he managed to say, "are not a hallucination."

He'd let himself dream of Cordelia here before, visions of a future he couldn't have, of peace and beauty and unending honour. In none of his visions had he been too drunk to get up, dishevelled and unshaven, a worthless wreck. Cordelia deserved a hero, a strong and brave and honourable man; when she looked at him he thought he could be that man. But not like this. "I never wanted you to see..."

But what she was seeing and what he was seeing were so very different, even now. She looked at him and smiled, and by some grace, she did still see a hero, a strong and brave and honourable man. He drew in breath as his future whirled around him, opening in all directions onto life and hope.


End file.
